


Say It In The Starlight

by mageicalwishes



Series: Carry On Sparks [3]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Basically just them FINALLY talking to one another, Canon Compliant, Communication, Depressed Simon Snow, Fluff, M/M, Picnic, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24965620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageicalwishes/pseuds/mageicalwishes
Summary: Baz takes Simon to see the stars, but they end up doing a lot more speaking than stargazing."Simon Snow’s schoolboy fixation has finally found some real-world truth - I’m plotting. Although, this time I’m not focused on bringing about the Chosen One’s destruction. I just want to make him smile."Inspired by Carry On Sparks, Week 4 - Plot (Even though this is like 3 weeks late :/)
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Carry On Sparks [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784923
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	Say It In The Starlight

**Author's Note:**

> TW - There is a brief mention of what happened in the forest in Carry On, so suicidal intentions are mentioned. It's nothing graphic or anything like that, but I thought it would be best to mention it!

**Baz**

Simon Snow’s schoolboy fixation has finally found some real-world truth - I’m plotting. Although, this time I’m not focused on bringing about the Chosen One’s destruction. I just want to make him smile. 

Two years ago today, back at Watford, Simon showed me the stars. It’s a day neither of us will ever forget. In all of our, admittedly, limited conversations about our relationship, he’s always maintained that, that was the day he felt something shift (Even if he didn’t fully realise it at the time). There, somewhere between our stiff beds and the infinity of space, something happened that changed us. That remade us. And I think it’s finally time that I repay the favour. 

Unfortunately, though, I’m unable to just conjure up the universe with a flick of my wrist like he did (I’ve tried numerous times, to no avail), so I’ve had to concede to taking a more _normal_ approach to replicating the magic of that night. I'm taking him on a date. Somewhere where the stars can shine down on him. 

In all our time together, we’ve never actually managed a traditional date (What with all the mess at Watford, the absolute _catastrophe_ that was our “Great American road trip”, and all of our recent avoidance), so really, it’s long overdue. 

Only ... I'm not entirely sure that he'll actually be willing to go with me; given our current situation. But I suppose there’s little harm in asking - Things can’t really get much worse than they already are, and as they say … ‘Fortune favours the bold’. 

“Snow,” I call, prodding at his thigh. “I need you to get up.”

He’s flopped, utterly lifeless, on the sofa again - His threadbare pyjamas stained and crumpled, and a ghastly stack of unwashed glasses and plates littering the floor around him, where his tail lays, limply. 

It hurts to look at him like this; so far from himself. But that’s how it is most days. Simon Snow: the boy who was promised the world - promised glory and gold - and left with nothing, lying vacant and depressed in his living room. Some days are better, of course; but most aren’t. 

After America, I _had_ hoped that things may be a little easier for him. That maybe some of his regained zest would stay with him. But nothing substantial changed. Without the sun, and the space, and the _danger,_ he fell right back into it, all too easily.

Bunce and I do our best to help him, of course - Offering our companionship, or dragging him outside with us for some fresh air (I’d even considered spelling him with a **_‘Cheer up, buttercup’_ **a few times). But realistically, there is little that we can do. He’s traumatised. He’s hurting. And all the magic and good intentions in the world can’t soothe his pain (As much as I wish they could). 

I try not to beat myself up over it, but it’s hard sometimes. I know I do all that I can, but my best efforts just aren’t good enough. They don’t make him happy. They don’t take away his hurt. I don’t know how to help him. So … I’m as good as useless to him now. 

Hauling himself over, he scowls at me. His eyes flat and ringed with red - The light behind them having dimmed, long ago. 

“For fuck’s sakes, Baz!” He gruffs. “Can’t you just leave me alone? I’m trying to sleep.” 

He gets snappy like this, sometimes - When he's let himself stew in his feelings for too long. But it's alright. He always apologises afterwards, when the haze has cleared. And I’m not exactly above losing my temper, either - So I have no real reason to complain. 

“I know, and I’m sorry but … I wanted to do something with you. Something time dependent. It’s already nine PM, and I really can't wait much longer, love." 

“Yeah well, _you’re_ the one who woke me up at seven AM, to go and buy you blood from the fucking New Forest, when there’s a perfectly good butcher down the road! You know I don’t mind getting you what you need, but that was seriously taking the piss! So _forgive me_ for being a little sleepy!" 

I gulp, guilt prickling in my stomach. 

I knew he was mad about that, but I’d hoped that he’d have forgiven me by now - Considering that I'd _already_ let him take my car, and supplied him with a, frankly, outrageous amount of chocolate, as a sorry. Because while it _is_ true that I sent him on a three and a half hour round trip back to Hampshire (under the false pretense that the blood there tastes better because it’s ‘free range’), I _really_ didn’t do it to be a prat. I only did it to get him out of the house for a while, so that I could whip up a batch of his beloved sour cherry scones, without causing suspicion. And while there were probably less infuriating methods of Simon Snow removal, I really couldn’t think of any at the time - So I had to make do. 

I just hope that when all is revealed he can find it in himself to forgive me. 

“I know,” I sigh. “And I _do_ appreciate it. I didn’t mean to take advantage, it just … really is better.”

Dropping his shoulders, his face twists with remorse as he reaches upwards, pawing at his neck roughly. _For Crowley’s sakes, now I’ve gone and made him feel worse! Just brilliant._

“Okay,” he mumbles. “I’m just … tired. Sorry. I didn’t mean to -”

“It’s alright, I understand. I’m sorry too - For waking you up. But … if it’s alright with you, I’d still like to take you out tonight. I've got somewhere special in mind.” 

“Why?” he asks, suspicious. “What’s so special about tonight?”

"You don't get any clues, Snow," I chide. "That'll only spoil the surprise. But, if you come with me, then I can show you. It'll be just us two, so you don't have to worry about getting dressed up, or anything like that. And ... you don't have to come at all, if you're not feeling up to it. But you may end up liking it, if you do.” 

Gnawing at his lip, he tugs at the hem of his shirt, awkwardly. 

“No. I just - I haven’t - I need to, like … get ready. I haven’t … showered. Or done my teeth." 

As painful as it is to admit, that doesn’t really surprise me. He struggles to take care of himself, sometimes. I don’t know if it’s just because he forgets, or the effort feels too insurmountable, or … what? All _I_ know is that he does. (I’m convinced that if Bunce and I didn’t keep him so well loaded with takeaways that he'd forget to eat half of the time). So, with a wordless shrug of agreement, I slide myself down onto the sofa besides him to wait (Clearly he’s rubbing off on me).

* * *

“Is this it?” he asks, as we pull into the carpark. 

He’s been jittery the whole ride here - His leg bouncing nervously, and his bottom lip ruddied where he’s been chewing at it. Like he thinks that this is all some elaborate ruse. 

“Well no,” I say, smirking over at him, as I undo my seatbelt. “This is a _carpark,_ Snow. I had something a _little_ nicer than this in mind, don’t you worry. I just need to go and set it up, first.” 

“Set it up?” 

“Don’t fret, you numpty. You can trust me. It’s nothing sinister.” 

Chuckling quietly, I reach forwards - Pressing my hand against his knee, in what I hope is a reassuring gesture. 

“Alright,” he murmurs, wriggling out of my touch, curtly (He still isn’t sure about me touching him sometimes - Says it makes him feel trapped). “Be quick then”.

I’m as quick as I can manage (Although I definitely spend _slightly_ too long fussing with my decorations). And soon enough, I’m pulling a blindfolded Snow behind me, our hands slotted together, loosely, as we stumble across the grass. The rough warmth of his skin against mine sending my heart aflutter. 

“Baz,” he coughs, his voice creeping with uncertainty. “Seriously, where are you taking me?”

“We’re in St James Park, Snow. We’ve been here before. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

“But … It’s late. What if we get mugged or something?” 

“If someone tries to mug us, then I’m _sure_ you’ll scare them off with a cocktail stick sword, or something. And if worst comes to worst, you pack a _mean_ punch. Either way, you’ll save us,” I shrug. 

Puffing out a slight laugh, he presses our palms a little closer together. 

“So … cocktail sticks. We’re having a picnic then?” 

“Hush, you,” I scold, miffed. “No more guessing. We’re almost there, so just wait and see, you impatient brute." 

Pulling us to a stop, I falter. Looking at it with fresh eyes, it’s a lot. _It’s an awful lot._

Besides a large willow on the edge of the lake, I’ve created a wonderful spread for us - All of his favourite foods sat in a wicker basket, in the centre of Bunce’s picnic blanket.

For aesthetic appeal, I’ve surrounded our space with an assortment of candles, held firmly in place with a **_‘Stay Put’_ ** (Since I imagine that setting ourselves alight would probably kill the mood). And I’ve spelled the raindrops, still clinging to the damp grass reeds, iridescent with a **_‘Twinkle in their eye’_ **. The glow of the flames dancing, ethereally, in their newly mirrored surface, so that the ground comes alive with a million watery fireflies. 

But I want this. _I want us to have this._ So there’s really no benefit to backing down now. 

“Alright,” I drawl, reluctantly dropping his hand, and taking a few steps away from him. “You can look now.” 

Urgently, he reaches upwards, tugging the makeshift blindfold from his eyes, and taking it all in. His face transforming into some shade of panicked horror, immediately. _Merlin and Morgana. Curse my flare for the dramatics! It’s definitely too much._

“Baz. Wh - What is all of this?” he stammers. 

Tense, I twirl a lock of hair between my fingers, in a hopeless attempt to focus on anything _other_ than what a _massive_ cock up this whole evening has been. 

“Well … I wanted to show you the stars.”

“The stars?” 

“Yes, Snow,” I bite. “The stars. You know, the little twinkly things in the sky.” 

I shouldn’t do that - The being rude to him. But for some reason it still seems to be my default defense setting. 

“I know - I know what a star is. I mean … why?” 

“Two years ago, today. Back at Watford. **_'Twinkle, twinkle little star'_ ** … Ring any bells?” 

“Oh,” he breathes. 

“Yes. _‘Oh’_ ,” I copy, my voice softening significantly. “I just - I wanted to repay the favour. I know that we had the truck in America. And, I know that this isn’t quite the same as the original. But … it’s the best I could do. We aren’t _all_ supernovas, you know.” 

“Yeah … No. I mean … it’s nice. I just - I don’t know.” 

It isn’t at all convincing, but I do my best to let his slither of praise ground me.

Hesitantly, I step forwards, holding out my hand to him, in offering. He doesn’t take it this time, so I let it flop, grimly, to my side. 

“Simon, we can go home if you’d prefer,” I try. “It was just an idea. Nothing an **_'As you were'_ ** can’t fix.”

He gawks at me like I’ve sprouted another head (Which is ironic considering that _he’s_ the one with the dragon appendages).

“No. I want to look at the stars,” he rejects, jutting his jaw out, determinedly. “I just don’t really … deserve it. I didn’t even, like … realise. I mean, how do you even know the date of that?” 

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sigh. “If you seriously don’t think you’re worthy of cheap finger foods and Fanta, then I’m afraid I’m going to have to revive some of my more creative Watford insults, because _that_ is idiotic. You do deserve it. This and more.”

Staring down at the ground, as if ashamed, he tugs his lips upwards into a weak smile.

“And I only remembered the date because, at the time, I thought that, that was all we would ever get. That it was the closest we’d ever be to what I really wanted. So … I clung to every detail. It’s horrifically embarrassing, really. And painfully sappy. But … there we are. I didn’t expect you to remember, though. So please don't worry that you didn’t,” I reassure.

We’re slightly better at this now - The talking. 

We had a huge fight in the toilets at Heathrow after America (Since there really was _no_ point in pretending that I didn’t know what he was trying to do on that beach), that basically boiled down to _‘You never tell me things’ ‘Well, you never tell me, either’._ So, we’ve been working on being a little more _open_ with our communication, since then. I try to be honest and tell him how I feel (However humiliating it may be), and he does the same. 

It’s clunky and unnatural, and it doesn’t always work (Obviously). But we’re trying. So it’s a start.

We haven’t gotten onto any of the more ‘heavy’ stuff just yet - The state of our relationship, the Mage, how afraid I am, how sad he is. Mostly we’ve just started fessing up to small things from our past - Like how lovelorn I was at Watford, or why he ditched his therapist. But, it’s only been a month. We stick to the past, right now, because the present is too painful (And I don’t really want to hear him say we have no future). But there’s hope. There’s a spark. There’s effort. So maybe one day we’ll get there. 

“Okay,” he agrees, his voice noticeably strained. “Then … let’s do it. I want to stay.” 

I grin, despite myself, and gesture towards the blanket. 

“After you, Snow.” 

* * *

“Holy shit,” he laughs, holding a hand out in front of his smile in an attempt to hide the mush of scone in his mouth. It doesn’t work, but I don’t really care (I’m disturbed). “They taste just like Watford’s. How the _hell_ did you make these? Or did you steal them from Prichard?”

Biting down a smile, I arch my eyebrow up at him. Bright and smiling, he tries to copy me - Both of his eyebrows jumping upwards, clumsily. And I wish that I could tell him how amazing it is to hear him laugh again, but I don’t want to risk upsetting him. He’d probably just take it to mean that I _only_ like him when he’s happier, which is just objectively untrue. I’d like him however he is. 

“Oh _please,_ petty theft is below a Pitch,” I breeze. 

“Then how?” 

“I bribed her with enough Champagne to bring down a Dragon, and she gave me the recipe. It was really very simple, Snow. I’m surprised you didn't manage it yourself.” 

“What? Seriously?” he beams, the corners of his eyes crinkling, charmingly. “How much did it take? I offered her, like, half of my Goblin Gold for it, and she still wouldn’t budge!” 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. My bank probably thinks that I have a _severe_ drinking problem now, but no matter. It’s worth it to see you smile.” 

Darting his eyes downwards, his face flushes with heat. 

“Penny would spell you silent if she heard you saying such sickly things, you know,” he complains, scrunching up his nose in disgust. 

It’s all fake, though. I know he doesn't really mean it. Whether he wants to admit it or not, he loves it when I’m soft with him. One whispered 'Love' or 'Simon' is enough to make him melt, even now. It used to be enough to get him to kiss me too, but not anymore (Practically nothing is). Although I don’t really care - It’s still incredibly endearing. 

“Oh I don’t doubt it. But, look … Bunce isn’t here. I’ve managed to lure you up here _all alone,_ so I’m free to be as saccharine as I please, I'm afraid." 

“Whatever,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’re so weird.” 

_“Ah yes -_ Being _nice_ to my boyfriend. Truly, I am a _freak,”_ I tease. “Just … lay down, you nightmare.” 

“Lay down?” 

“Yes. It’s a very simple instruction, Snow” I deadpan, flopping myself back down onto the blanket, with a puff of laughter. 

“Yeah but … why?” 

“Because ... unless everything has gone loopy, the stars that I brought you out here to see are above you. So lie down and look. I’m not going to jump you, don’t worry.”

“Alright,” he says, carefully resting himself down on the blanket. “If you say so.” 

* * *

He’s tucked up against me now, staring up at the stars, happily - His head resting, heavily, against my outstretched arm, and his right leg draped over mine. It’s a little uncomfortable, to be honest, but I daren’t tell him. He’d only move away, and I so desperately want him to stay. 

Pointing up at a the sky above us, I draw his attention to a particular cluster of stars, and can't help but wonder whether they're the same ones that filled our room, or hung above us in America - Or if even _they_ have changed, too. 

“That one is Aries,” I explain. “The Ram constellation.” 

“I don’t see anything,” he whines, pouting out his lips, childishly. 

Rolling my eyes, I grab a hold of his hand and pull out his ring finger, directing it’s point to trace the stars’ outline. 

“That’s just a random line.”

“Nope. It’s a Ram ... Although, I will admit that the resemblance is a little tenuous.” 

He turns to me, smiling brightly, and my heart clenches at the sight of him, so close and carefree.

“It’s a line, and you know it,” he chuckles. “How do you even know so much about stars, anyway? They all look the same to me.” 

“We have a couple of astronomy books back in our home library. My mother liked to stargaze,” I say, waving dismissively. “And … they remind me of you, so I like learning about them.”

“They remind you of _me?”_

“Yes. All of your moles are like constellations. I’ve always thought so. And, obviously, that night with the stars only reinforced the link.” _God, I’m disgustingly sappy. How can he bear it?_

“I see,” he sings, snuggling his head down against my chest. “Well … thank you for showing me.”

We lay together for a while, like that - His head moving with each rise and fall of my chest, and my shirt scrunched up in his fists. We don’t talk about all that much - just chatter about university and the new Nordic bakery Simon found just off of the Golden Square - but it’s nice. It’s normal. It’s _us._

Smoothing a hand down his waist, I take a deep breath, readying myself for what’s next. 

“Simon -” I start, my voice barely a whisper (Talking at full volume amongst the fragile calm that has settled between us feels far too disruptive). 

“Hmm,” he hums, the vibration of his voice tickling against my skin. 

“I need to tell you something. Something I should’ve told you a long time ago.”

Instantly, I feel his body stiffen, every muscle pulled taut with tension. 

“It’s nothing bad,” I reassure. “Or … I don’t think so, anyway.” 

“What then?” he asks, looking up at me, his brow knotted with nerves. 

“I just … _I Love you.”_

And with those three words, he pulls himself away from me, once again. Yanking his arms backwards, and wrapping them around himself in a defensive self-hug, as he shifts away.

“Simon?” I call, uncertain. “Are you okay?” 

He doesn’t answer; just yanks at his curls and shakes his head no. _Fucking Hell. I’ve really messed up now._

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … ruin things. I just wanted you to know. Please don’t - it’s alright.”

“No, Baz,” he trembles. 

“No, what?” 

“It’s not - I just - I don’t -” 

Stumbling over his words, he jabs the heels of his palm into his eye sockets, in frustration. And I cringe, involuntarily, at the sight of it. It _must_ hurt. 

“Just … take your time, love,” I ease. 

He sniffs, pitifully, then, and I think he may be crying. I’m on the verge, too - My throat thick with regret, and my eyes stinging, warningly - but I hold it in. _Just._ Crying would only make this worse, and it _really_ doesn’t need to get any worse. _I shouldn’t have said anything. I shouldn’t have forced my love upon him._

Hanging his head forwards, he gives himself a moment to recollect his faculties - His breath thick and shaking. 

I wait, silently - Counting the stars above me in an attempt to ease my mind. Knowing that he’ll speak when he can - When he finds the words.

And sure enough, picking at the grass beneath him, he finally does - Sobbing and broken though they may be: “I just … don’t understand how you _can_ anymore?” 

“Understand how I can what?”

“How you can, like … love me.” 

My heart clenches at the sound of him, so earnest and afraid. _Of course._ Even after _everything_ we’ve been through - Even after all I’ve told him - he _still_ can’t see that I do. Still can’t _believe_ that I do. And it’s my fault, I know. I haven’t managed to tell him properly before now. Not in a way that he believed. Not in a way that he could let in and hold onto. _I should’ve tried harder._ I should’ve just dropped my pride and told him outright and simple, rather than messing about with poetics. I should’ve told him months ago. Years ago! I’ve known for long enough. All _I_ needed to do was let him hear it. But I didn’t. And now it’s too late. 

Helplessly, I reach out, cupping the softness of his jaw with my hand, and turning him to face me. He resists, slightly, but lets me do it. He refuses to meet my eyes, though - Staring down at the floor, blankly, a teardrop hanging from the tip of his nose. 

“Simon, _listen to me._ I’ve loved you for _years._ There’s _plenty_ of reasons why I can, and _do_ … I love your kindness. I love your morality. I love your bravery. I love your stubbornness. I love your fierceness. I love your smile. I love your heart. I love your mind. I love getting to spend time with you. I love how when we sleep, you always leave a light on for me because you know, even though I’m too proud to admit it, that I don’t like the dark. Or how … you always leave me a bit of your food for me to try -”

He’s staring at me intensely now, his eyes squinted and scanning across my face. 

“- I could wax poetic about all the parts of you that I cherish _forever,_ if need be. But, to keep it simple, I love _everything_ about you. Even if you don’t … necessarily _understand_ it, it’s the truth. You just need to believe me. You need to _trust_ me. I loved you then, and I love you now. Nothing has changed, in that respect.”

“I’m a disaster,” he mumbles, looking away, his brow furrowed, and deep, frowning creases forming besides his mouth. 

“I’ll give you that,” I smile, hoping to lift the mood. “But I love disasters.” 

“Baz,” he huffs, planting his head in his hands. “I’m _being_ serious.” 

“Hey, look at me -” He doesn’t. “- _So am I._ I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” 

“But, I - I mean, I can’t even do it back, properly. It’s not that I don’t - Don’t, like, you know. I just … I can’t do this _properly._ I thought, at the start, that maybe I could. But I _can’t._ We’ve been together for _ages_ now, and all I’ve done in that time is be an absolutely terrible boyfriend to you! Even by my standards.” 

“Well, you did try to warn me,” I joke, shuffling slightly closer to him. “But … you’re not a terrible boyfriend, Simon. Don’t be unfair to yourself. _This is good. You are good._ And … after all, _I’m_ the one who sent you on a pointless trip to the New Forest this morning. So, I reckon, if anyone is a terrible boyfriend right now, it’s me.” 

“But you - I mean, you deserve better,” he whispers. “I’m not _enough_ for you, anymore. I don’t think I ever was, really. You’re … you, and I’m just _me.”_

“You’re _more_ than good enough for me, you halfwit,” I scold, softening my tone “ Simon, you’re _everything_ I want.”

“No, but … look around us. You did _all_ of this, and I … I haven’t done anything.” 

“Oh, hush! You’ve done _plenty._ You’ve given me more than I ever could’ve hoped for. Even if you don’t see it.” 

“But that’s the _point!”_ he groans, yanking at his curls. “You should want more than that! What little I do, _isn’t good enough._ You’re just clinging onto when things were alright! But they’re not anymore, don’t you see?!” 

I stare at him blankly, trying to figure him out. Why he can’t just accept what I’m saying, I’ll never know. 

“Look … I’ll admit that things between us have been a little _difficult,_ as of late. But that _doesn’t_ mean that I don’t love you, or that somehow you’re not ‘good enough’ for me. I want you however you are. And _sure,_ I'd love if things were a little easier - For you, _and_ for me. But there’s no rush.”

“Things have been _'difficult'_ for months now, Baz!” he cries, his voice bitter and defeated. “I’m so _sick_ of lying to myself, and pretending that I’m going to get my happy ending. My head went wrong long ago! At this point it’s best if we just cut our losses, and accept that I’m unfixable.” 

I clench my eyes shut, pained. The utter hopelessness in his voice, a bitter pill to swallow. 

“You’re not 'unfixable', Simon. You don’t even need to be _'fixed'._ Just … Listen to me,” I plead. “I understand why we are where we are, and _I don’t mind._ We just need to … work through it. What happened to you - I mean, Merlin, it’s your _whole_ life! The Mage was _despicable._ He _used_ you. He _abused_ you. He _stole_ your _entire_ childhood, without even a _second_ of thought over what it might do to you! But … what happened at White Chapel was _awful._ You shouldn't have had to watch that. But, it's so much more than that- Than him. It's _everything._ All the instability of your early years. The Humdrum. All the _killing_ and the _fighting._ Whatever happened to you and Bunce at the end of term. How the Coven just … ditched you. Christ, even _me,_ Snow! I mean, I wasn’t exactly compassionate towards you at Watford, was I? I _tormented_ you. I just … everything that happened - That kind of trauma doesn’t just vanish overnight. It takes _time._ And I _know_ that you’ve been told that a million times before, and you’re probably fed up of hearing it, but it’s _true._ It’s fine that you’re not … fine, right now. I don’t expect you to be. I don’t _need_ you to be.”

Turning away, he shakes his head.

“But it's not,” he protests, his voice whining. “I’m no good to you like this. I’m no good to anyone, anymore. I’m not some superhero. I’m not some supernova. I’m just … _nothing._ I’m a burden - To you _and_ Penny. All you do is go to uni and babysit me! And, we still haven’t … I mean, I can hardly ever even be _kissed_ without getting all weird! What kind of fucked up boyfriend _am I?_ ”

“There’s more to life than snogging, Snow,” I chastise. “I _enjoy_ your company, whether we’re doing … those sorts of things, or not. I’m not _babysitting_ you, I’m _spending time_ with you. And you’re _not_ a burden. Needing help doesn’t make you some kind of problem. You’re our friend. You’re my - We _want_ to help you.” 

“Yeah, but … I just want to be normal again. I just want it to all be simple. This is - I’ve _ruined_ this.”

“Not true,” I argue. “This _isn’t_ ruined. You just … keep focussing on what we don’t have, rather than what we do.” 

Reaching across the blanket, I grab a hold of his hand - Tracing my fingertips over the rough calluses there.

“This-” I enunciate, squeezing his palm for emphasis. “Is a _lot_ more than we had two years ago. Nothing is ruined, it’s just, perhaps, not _exactly_ what we’d expected.”

“Yeah but … it’s a lot _less_ than we had when we first left Watford. I used to be able to … do it all properly. I don’t know what happened. I thought - I mean, it’s not _your_ fault. I don’t know why I can’t just … _do it.”_

“I know -” I sigh.

Because he _does_ have a point. Simon never really liked to be touched first - To feel _pressured._ But it used to be manageable. We could hug. We could kiss. _Sometimes_ we’d _even_ end up snogging on the sofa, for the better part of an hour. And as long as he was in control for the majority of the time, he could surrender himself to luxuriating in my affections, occasionally.

Nowadays though, even a chaste kiss on the cheek feels incredibly risky, so I rarely try to initiate anything. It’s better to let him decide when we can or can’t. There’s _no_ need for me to be greedy about it. 

And while I cannot deny that I miss it - being able to be close to him, in that way - I don’t mind. Not _really._ My whole life has been a practise in maintaining control over ‘powerful’ urges (Both Snow and non-Snow related), so I’ve had _plenty_ of of experience in holding myself back. _Screw the erotic gropefest that teenage me had always envisioned!_ As long as he’s comfortable, and he still wants this, then I’m happy to give or withhold whatever he needs. Being a little touch starved won’t kill me, but losing him probably would. 

“- I understand that it’s frustrating, _really_ I do. But … sometimes you have to take five steps backwards for each step forwards. And I appreciate that it hurts, but as long as you keep on walking, you’ll get where you need to be, eventually. If we carry on trying (And I mean _really, actively_ trying), then I’m sure things will get a little easier for us soon, love. But you need to give it time. You need to give _yourself_ time … That’s just the arduous nature of progress, I’m afraid.”

Sticking out his tongue in a fake vomiting gesture, he laughs - A little hushed and wet, but genuinely amused, nonetheless. 

“Fucking hell! Don’t be so _grim,_ Baz. You sound like a _therapist!”_

“Yes, well … there _is_ a reason people pay to go and see therapists, you know.” 

Rolling his eyes, he shoves his hands into my chest, jokingly. 

“Yeah, and there’s a reason I stopped going to mine, _smart-arse._ Too much of that sort of _crap!”_

“I know, I know,” I laugh, wearily - Not trusting this brief flickering of emotional relief. “I don’t mean to be all preachy - _God_ knows you probably won’t listen, anyway! But, as disgustingly cliche as it may be, it’s true.” 

He pauses, sucking in a shaking breath.

“I know, but - I can’t.” 

“Can’t what?” 

“Can’t _everything,_ Baz!” he explains, utterly exhausted. “I mean you just - And I didn't … you know, do it back. I _ruined_ it.” 

“You didn’t ruin it, it’s _fine._ You don’t _have_ to say it back, Simon. That wasn’t the point. I just wanted you to know. I wasn’t counting on reciprocation. I don’t need that from you, it’s alright.” 

“It’s _not_ ‘alright’, Baz!” he snaps. _“None of this is alright!_ Just … _stop_ saying that! You _always_ say that!

“But it _is_ alright,” I assert, leaning towards him slightly. “I’m only _saying_ it because I _mean_ it! I didn’t intend to make you feel … obligated. I _seriously_ didn’t expect you to say it back, or for it to be some huge ‘thing’. I’ve just … never managed to tell you, properly, and after America -” After seeing him lying there on the ground, lifeless and beaten, his wings twisted and covered in blood. As good as dead. “- I just needed for you to know. Everything is perfectly _fine,_ I promise. I don’t care that you didn’t - I’m not upset by how you responded, Snow.” 

_“Well you bloody well should expect me to say it back!_ You _should_ care! That’s the _whole_ point! You’re _supposed_ to want things from me. You’re _supposed_ to expect things from me. You’re _not_ just supposed to sit there and take whatever _bullshit_ I give you, and keep on telling me that everything is fine and dandy, Baz!” 

“I _do_ ‘want’ things from you, Snow,” I sigh. “I just want them to be on _your_ terms, when _you’re_ ready. There’s _nothing_ wrong with being accommodating. And … I’m only telling you it’s fine because it _is!_ Just because something is somewhat positive, _doesn’t_ make it a lie - You only think that it does. And, I’m sorry but … you’re _wrong._ I don’t mind that you aren’t ready to say it back - Whether it’s because you’re unsure of how you feel, or you don’t want to, or you just _can’t._ I want you to say it when _you_ want to - Not before. I wanted to say it now, so I did. If you don’t, then _don’t._ _Simple!"_

He growls at that, just like he used to do when I’d insult him. Except this time I really don’t understand that objection. 

“But - even _if_ that’s true, it isn’t _just_ that!”

“Then what?” I ask, exasperated.

I don’t mean to lose my temper with him, and I don’t _really_ think I am (Not quite yet), but … I’m tired of arguing with him over even the smallest things. Everything I do is _wrong._ If I’m kind, he doesn’t believe me or accuses me of ‘babying’ him. If I snap, he takes whatever cruel thing that comes out of my mouth as my ‘true’ thoughts. If I hide my wants away, he has a problem with it. If I tell him, I’m pressuring him. _All I do is lose._ And while I know that I’m the one to blame, for being unable to figure out how to best be what he needs, I just _wish_ that it would stop. I just wish that we could fix it. But we can’t. We don’t know _how._

“Well, like … I see the look in your eyes when I pull away, or I shove you off, or I snap at you, or when I just … lay there. It’s like - You’re _so_ _sad,_ but you _never_ say! And … I know that it’s my fault, but I can’t seem to stop myself from doing it, and I don’t know _why!_ I don’t _want_ to do it. I just - I just want to be _normal_ again. And I want you to stop lying and saying everything is fine, when it _clearly_ isn’t.” 

“Snow, I’m not lying to you! I’m telling you that it’s fine because it _genuinely_ is! _How many times do I have to go over this?_ I _don’t_ understand the problem.” 

“The problem is that I just - I don’t believe you,” he huffs.

“But _why not?_ I _wouldn’t_ lie to you. I just … _wouldn’t.”_

“Because … it just - it means _nothing_ to me, anymore, Baz! You got beaten down so many times in America, and _all_ you did was keep on telling me that everything was fine, and reassuring me, and _swearing_ that you were happy, when anybody who was paying attention could tell that you _weren’t!_ So … how am I supposed to believe you when you tell me it’s alright now? How do _I_ know you’re not just telling me what you think I want to hear, because you’re too afraid of me to tell me the truth?” 

“I’m not afraid of you, Snow,” I drone. “I could drain you dry in a half a second, if I wanted to.” 

And of course my insistence on being a petulant little _git_ doesn’t help the situation at all - Only adding fuel to the, already, engorged fire. But it’s too late to take it back, now - So I let my little dig steep in the space between us. Rotten and unnecessary. 

“Not like that,” he groans. “You _know_ I don’t mean it like that! Don’t be such a _dick!_ I just mean, like … it’s like you’re afraid of hurting me. You think that I can’t take the truth, so you keep on _hiding_ it away from me, but you’re _wrong_. _I can take the truth! I want the truth!_ I’m not - I’m not made of butterfly wings, and it _pisses_ _me off_ when you treat me like I am!” 

“I don’t mean to … treat you differently," I explain, taken aback. "I just don’t want to … pressure you, or make some idiotic mistake that’ll mess things up. But when I tell you things are fine, I’m not doing it to spare your feelings, I’m _doing it_ because I _mean_ it! _All I’m doing_ is telling you the truth. I mean, what would you _rather_ me do, Simon? You haven’t done _anything_ wrong, and I’m _perfectly fine,_ so what else _is there?_ What, I mean - Do you _want_ me to get mad at you over _nothing?_ Because I'm telling you right now, I _won't_ do it."

We’re both heated now - jaws clenched and words spat. And it’s just like old times, but it aches. _It aches so bad._ There’s no rivalry here, no facade, and no game. It’s just us - Fighting because we don’t know what else to do. And it’s so _painfully_ real - so painfully vulnerable - that it near shatters my heart. 

Tonight was supposed to be a _relief,_ not a rematch. But here we are, once again - Right where neither of us wants to be. 

“At least then I’d know you’re not being _fake,_ just to protect me, or whatever it is you _think_ you’re doing!"

And with that, he jumps up, and stomps over to the edge of the lake - Sitting himself down in the mud, away from me. _End of conversation. End of argument._ But there's no point backing down now. If we're going to do this, then we may as well do it properly, and get this whole catastrophe over with ASAP. So I trail after him, helplessly. 

Dropping myself down besides him, the words come tumbling out before I can stop them - So desperate and broken. My mask well and truly dissolved. 

“Simon, I’m not _like that,_ anymore. You _know_ that. I don’t _want_ to fight with you.” 

“No, Baz,” he whines. “I shouldn’t have - I know that you don’t want that. Neither do I. I just mean that … you’re _allowed_ to, like, complain. You’re _allowed_ to fight back. You’re _allowed_ to tell me when I’m being a prat - Or when I’ve hurt you. _None_ of that would make you a bad person. _None_ of that would put us back where we were. _All_ it would mean is that I know what you’re feeling. What you’re _really_ feeling. I _want_ to know. Even if you think I don’t.”

“You _know_ what I’m feeling,” I plead. “I _keep_ on telling you.” 

He shakes his head in disagreement, apparently unconvinced. 

“Only _sometimes._ And half the time you ‘telling me’ is just you saying you’re fine when you’re not. I _know_ it is. You’re hard to read, but even you slip sometimes, and I can tell that I’ve hurt you, or that something is bothering you, but you just … don’t _say.”_

“No but … even if things aren’t necessarily great, I’m still _fine._ I’m still okay. I’m still _happy._ I’m not _lying_ to you, Simon. What would be the point?” 

“I don’t - I mean, I don’t think you are _‘lying’,_ exactly. I just - I don’t mean to make it sound like I’m calling you a liar. I know you wouldn’t … do _that._ But I think, maybe, you honestly _do_ think you’re fine (Which is why you say that you are), when you’re not _really.”_

“What?” I ask, glancing over at him. “I’m not sure that I understand what you mean. Can you - Can you explain?” 

“I don’t _know,_ Baz,” he winces. “I just - I’ve been speaking to Penny … about you.” 

Shifting himself forwards, slightly, he stares, expressionless, in front of him - His gaze a thousand miles from where we are. And I wait for him to elaborate, but it doesn’t come. 

“Okay,” I drawl. “And what did Bunce have to say exactly?” 

“Um, well … I, like, tried to explain to her what I think you’re doing - You know, when she pulled me out for one of her ‘chats’. And I mean, don’t _worry_ \- I didn’t tell her any detail about your personal business, or anything. I just wanted her to help me understand. And … she said that you sound like you’re in … denial.” 

“‘Denial’,” I repeat, confused (And, perhaps, a little defensive). “In denial about what?” 

“How you are,” he explains. “I just mean … I think she has a point. I don’t think you’re, like … _normal.”_

Finally, he looks over at me, and I raise an eyebrow in question - Unsure of what to say. 

“Shit. Not like _that,”_ he moans. “I don’t mean it in a _bad_ way. I’m just - I’m not good with my words. I just mean that ... while, you may be better on the outside, I think that _inside,_ you’re just as bad as me.” 

I pause for a moment, unsteady, trying to find my words. But, unhelpfully, the only one that my brain seems to be capable of supplying right now is ‘Fine’. _Maybe they do have a point, after all._

“Snow,” I huff. “You don’t have to worry about me. I don’t want you to. I’m perfectly _normal_ … mentally.” 

_“B_ _ut you would say that!_ I _really_ don’t think that you are, though. You’ve _never_ been fine. Not the whole time I’ve known you, Baz.”

“That’s not true,” I insist. _“I. Am. Fine.”_

He looks at me like it’s a lie; but it’s not. _I mean it._ And while I will concede that perhaps I’ve had a few moments of … _concern,_ compared to him I’m _golden._ _He’s_ the priority right now, not me. Because despite whatever may have happened in the past, I’m fine _now._ _I_ can cope. Whereas he … well, I’m not sure that he can. 

“Then what was that night in the forest about? Hm?” He challenges. 

I steel, suddenly - His words suffocating my body. 

We both _know_ what was happening in the forest that night, but we’ve never _actually_ spoken about it properly (There was no need to - _I coped)._ I was overwhelmed and I acted a little … rashly. A moment of weakness - _Nothing more, nothing less._ It’s not like I’d ever try to do it again. 

“That was a blip,” I dismiss. 

He scoffs - Dull and unamused. “You can hardly call that a _‘blip’,_ Baz. I mean ... what if I wasn’t there. What would you have done? -” 

I don’t answer him, because I can’t. I don’t know for sure _what_ I would have done. Maybe I would’ve … gone through with it. But maybe I would’ve snapped out of it - I always had before. 

Mercifully, though, he spares me the discomfort of having to reply.

“- And even _if_ it was a ‘blip’ (Which it isn’t), what about the night I found you in the catacombs? Or all the nightmares? Or all your family stuff? Or how stressed you get about school - How hard you push yourself? Or the whole _vampire_ thing? Or everything that happened with … Lamb?” 

I cut him off before he can continue (Since I _really_ don’t need a list of all things I’ve been weak enough to let my hurt show over). “I've _told_ you there was _nothing_ with Lamb. He convinced me that he could help. And I was _playing_ _a part,_ just like I was supposed to - I didn’t mean to make it sound like …”

“I know,” he sighs. “I didn’t mean it like that. _I know that._ I just meant - I mean, I could tell that you were beating yourself up over it - over what he’d done - but … you were only trying to help us find Agatha. You couldn’t have known.”

“Okay.” 

“But … that wasn’t my point. Specifics don’t really matter. My point was that … you’re not _‘fine’._ And I know that … I’m not either. But, I just _wish_ that you didn’t feel like you have to pretend to be perfect and unbothered all the time, because of me. _You should be able to get help,_ _too._ You should be able to … feel whatever it is that you’re feeling, without panicking about someone else seeing.” 

“So … you’re saying that, really, we’re just as bad as one another?” 

“Sort of. I mean … it’s not, like, a contest, or something. I just meant that, maybe, we’re both not exactly one hundred percent.” 

I laugh, bitterly. “We match.” 

“We match,” he echoes, nodding his head.

“But even if what you’re saying has some merit -”

“Which it _does!”_ he interrupts.

Glaring over at him, I roll my eyes, but don’t object. 

“- Which _maybe_ it does. I don’t understand why you’re bringing it up now. How I am is irrelevant to my little ... confession. And it _doesn’t_ affect my ability to be honest with you?” 

“Okay,” he breathes. “Just … let me try to explain, then.”

“Okay,” I nod. “Go ahead, Snow. I’m listening.” 

“I’m bringing it up _now_ because … I don’t want you to hide yourself away from me, anymore. It’s getting us nowhere. I just want - I mean, I want you to try and … _not_ do that. If you want something, _ask._ If I’ve upset you, _say._ If I’m being unreasonable, _let me know._ Don’t just … sit there and take it because you think it’s the _noble_ thing to do, Baz. _Please._ I know that I … do the same sort of thing sometimes, but I don’t want _you_ to, as well. I just - I don’t know how to tell what’s real or what’s just something you’re doing to try and be kind - Or to, like, protect yourself, I guess?” 

I gawp over at him, chest heaving unsteadily. 

He definitely has a point. I’ve been walking on eggshells around him for months. Carefully skirting around all that I want - all that I _feel_ \- in an attempt to stop it from consuming me. _From consuming_ _us._ Convinced that it would destroy us both - Everything inside of me far too large, and hungry, and frightening, to handle.

“I just think that, if I know that you’re being … open with me, then it will be easier for me to believe you. To … believe all the nice things that you say or do, rather than questioning why you’re doing them. Whether it’s ‘cause you want to, or ‘cause you think it’s because that’s what I need from you in the moment, or ‘cause now’s the only ‘safe’ time to do it. I know … you’re not lying when you say you’re okay, but I think maybe you’re _oversimplifying_ things, or, like, hiding the bad bits of how you feel. I just … if you _say_ instead, it might help us. You won’t have to be so … _frightened._ And I might find it easier to accept what you say at face value, you know? I don’t know … maybe it’s stupid.” 

Exhaling, he stares down at the floor, gnawing at his bottom lip, anxiously - His words heavy on my mind. 

And, swallowing my pride, I speak - My voice crackling with emotion: “It’s not stupid. It makes sense, I - understand where you’re coming from. And, given that, I promise that I’ll ... try to be a little more _forthcoming_ about how I’m feeling - More _accurately_ descriptive. Even if it isn’t, necessarily, what I think you might want to hear.”

“Really?” he asks, disbelieving. 

“Really.” 

“Good,” he says, lips sparking upwards into a faint smile at my offer. 

“But … I’m somewhat apprehensive about it?” I break. 

“‘Apprehensive’? Why?” 

“Because I don’t want to end up accidentally pushing you further away from me. You’re already so … far, sometimes. Talking about how I feel _really_ isn’t essential for me. I’ve always managed _perfectly_ well without doing it, before -” He scrunches up his face, clearly objecting, but he let’s me continue uninterrupted, this time. “- I don’t mind being … _cautious._ I _like_ being cautious. If I just blurt out every single thing I’m thinking or feeling, you may … get the wrong idea. And it’s _not_ that everything I think about us is negative, or anything like that, it’s just … occasionally a little _bleak._ You _already_ doubt that I’m committed to this - that I still want this - and I'm do _everything_ I can to prove it to you, but I’m not sure that the message has gotten through to you. _I want to stay. I want you to stay. I want us to be … together._ And, I’m afraid that, if I’m _entirely_ open, I may scare you away. That you’ll mistake my … desperation, for dissatisfaction or unhappiness, and think that I don’t want you. When I _do."_

He nods, understanding. 

“The absolute _last_ thing that I want to do, is to mess this up,” I continue. “And, I’m not entirely sure that what you’re asking for won’t end up doing that. I just … want you to be sure that this is _really_ what you want, before we go ahead and commit to it.”

“I know,” he whispers, sliding closer to me and grabbing hold of my hands. “I don’t want any of that bad stuff to happen, either, but I’m _sure_ that this is what I want. I want to try it. Avoiding how you feel isn’t helping either of us, but ... maybe this _will.”_

“You avoid things, _too,”_ I argue. “I understand that you don’t want to seek _professional_ help, at this point, and that’s your prerogative - But you _still_ _refuse_ to talk to Bunce and I about how _you’re_ feeling. How is that any different to what I _’m_ doing? Surely that isn’t helping us, either?” 

As the words pour out of my mouth, my stomach pangs with shame. I don’t know _why_ I’m, seemingly, so keen on shifting the blame over to him. We were working towards a _resolution,_ and none of this is _his_ fault (I’ve _never_ thought that it was _his_ fault). But maybe I’m just too cowardly to admit that my attempts to help have only hindered us. Maybe I just don’t want to bear the viscous twisting of guilt alone. Or maybe I’m just an arsehole (It wouldn’t surprise me. As much as I _try_ to be a _‘good’_ person, I so _frequently_ miss the mark. It’s a _wonder_ somebody as righteous as Simon can even _tolerate_ my presence, to be honest, _yet alone_ _enjoy it)._

He doesn’t rise to the bait, though - Just sighs tiredly, and thunks his head down onto the edge of my shoulder. 

“I know I do. And you’re right … that doesn’t help us, either. But - I promise to try and stop, if you do. I  _ want  _ to get better, Baz,” he chokes. “I want  _ us _ to get better.” 

Lulling my head over, I look at him - His Adam’s Apple bobbing, showily, and his boring blue eyes brimmed with tears. And, utterly overcome, I press a quick kiss to his hairline - Chaste and feather-light. 

“I want that too,” I admit, mumbling against him. “So we can do it together. I’ll do my best to be open with you about the more … difficult things, and you do your best to reciprocate. Sounds simple enough.”

_ It really doesn’t,  _ i f I’m honest. It sounds about as much fun as pulling teeth. But if this is what he wants - if this is what he  _ needs _ \- then who am I to argue? Trying _ something _ is better than trying nothing, after all. 

“With our track record, probably not,” he chuckle. "We _really_ aren't that good at this." 

“True," I breath "But I’ve always loved a challenge, Snow. Why’d you think I went after the one guy I couldn’t have?”

“Because you couldn’t help it,” he softens, pressing closer - The heat of his face against my chest, welcome in the dwindling temperature of night. “You’ve told me  _ that  _ much.” 

“I know. But, Snow … if we’re going to do this, then I need you understand that  _ whatever _ I say -  _ whatever I think  _ \- I still like you as you are, right now. I still like  _ us _ as we are, right now. I’d rather work  _ with _ you through a rough patch, than lose you all together. I wouldn’t - I  _ really  _ wouldn’t be happy anywhere else.  _ I choose you, Simon _ \- However  _ ‘you’  _ may be. Good or bad. Through thick and thin. Okay?” 

“Okay. I’ll … try to remember. But - I’m sorry … about today. I didn’t mean to mess it all up. I wanted to say it back, I just … panicked. I didn’t mean to - I never mean to  _ ruin _ things. To ruin us. I really  _ do _ want to be able to, like, love you properly … ‘Cause I do … love you. I - I love you, Baz.” 

Endlessly pleased, I take his face into my fands, and turn him around gently - Meeting his eyes face-to-face. My heart soaring gleefully within my chest at the sight of him - His cheeks flushed and a sweetly shy smile spread across his face. Because there it is -  _ Finally.  _ It’s all out in the open now. 

_ I love him and he loves me _ .

“You see  _ that  _ is  _ more _ than ‘proper’ enough for me, Snow,” I beam, impossibly light. “So don’t go giving up on us yet. There will be _plenty_ of time for us to figure out all of our … mess, later.  But, I think that we’ve done  _ more _ than enough talking for one day. So just … forget about all of that right now, and stay with me here. Okay?” 

“Okay,” he agrees, his voice wobbling, slightly. “You - Do you wanna’ show me the stars again, then? I’ve forgotten which constellation is which, already.”

“Of  _ course _ you have,” I laugh. “You’re a _ hopeless _ study, I've always said so. But yes - It would be my _pleasure_ to reeducate you.” 

And so, taking his shoulders in my hands, I roll us over so that he’s flat on his back - Holding myself up above him, and resting our foreheads together. Simon breaking into a smile, beneath me - _Wide and bright and shining._ And he’s a little bit of a mess - fat streaks of tears still staining his face, and his hair pulled into a wild matte - but it’s _everything_ that I’d wanted. Everything that I’d _hoped._

_Simon Snow is beautiful when he’s happy._

“Just … _one_ more thing.” 

“Anything,” I smile, smoothing his hair backwards. 

“Say it again.”

“Say what again?” 

“Basil ... you _know_ what,” he coos. 

And I do, so I give it to him without hesitation (We’ve already had _more_ than enough of that): 

_“I love you, Simon Snow. Now and always.”_

And he _smiles … and smiles … and smiles._

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo ... I appreciate that this fic is basically just a long winded conversation, but I hope still you enjoyed!  
> Thanks for reading :)  
> My Tumblr: [Link text](https://mageicalwishes.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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